


Hard to Reach Places

by smarshtastic



Series: Prompt Table [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 15:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarshtastic/pseuds/smarshtastic
Summary: Crowley looks over the edge of his paper, eyes narrowed. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice Crowley’s attention. He’s twisting an arm behind his back, fingers reaching to scratch a place that seems just slightly out of reach. Crowley is frustrated just by watching him.---Crowley helps Aziraphale with his wings, and other issues.





	Hard to Reach Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/gifts).



> Hello it's me again with more wingfic! 
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/smarshtastic), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/mcreyes), and [tumblr](https://wictorwictor.tumblr.com/) ♥

Aziraphale wiggles. That’s not unusual - he always seems to be wiggling for some reason or another. Crowley only takes particular notice this time because it’s a wiggle that doesn’t appear to be related to anything. Or, rather, Crowley can’t see anything - a creamy cup of cocoa, a rare book in good condition, or a sumptuous bit of pastry - about which Aziraphale would normally wiggle. 

Crowley decides to dismiss it as just one of those things and goes back to skimming the newspaper for any observations about the most recent nuisance he’d introduced to London. He finds an opinion piece about the proposed bus route changes and settles in for a good read. 

Aziraphale wiggles again. 

Crowley looks over the edge of his paper, eyes narrowed. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice Crowley’s attention. He’s twisting an arm behind his back, fingers reaching to scratch a place that seems just slightly out of reach. Crowley is frustrated just by watching him. 

“What’s gotten into you, angel?” Crowley asks, folding his paper into his lap. Aziraphale looks up, his hand dropping back to his side. An almost guilty look flits briefly over his face. 

“What was that?” 

“You’re wiggling.” 

“I hardly think that’s worth mentioning,” Aziraphale says, a bit stiffly. Crowley knows, after six thousand years, when Aziraphale is trying to avoid a topic, but Crowley is nothing if not persistent. 

“Beg to differ,” Crowley says. Aziraphale looks away and picks up his book again. 

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale says. Crowley leans forward, over the remains of their afternoon tea, and plucks the book out of Aziraphale’s hands. “Crowley!” 

Crowley tosses the book aside, because he knows it will annoy Aziraphale. (By some minor miracle, it lands perfectly unharmed atop the pile of books on the coffee table in front of them.) 

“You’re hiding something,” Crowley says. That guilty look washes over Aziraphale’s face again. He looks away, embarrassed. 

“It’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” Aziraphale says. He stands and picks up the tea tray without making eye contact. He steps briskly into his kitchen. Crowley waits half a moment before he follows. 

Aziraphale stands over the sink, fingers gripping the edge of the counter so tightly that his knuckles are practically as white as his hair. Crowley feels something twist in his chest. He takes a step closer to Aziraphale, then stops, hesitates. 

“Aziraphale?” he asks. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Bollocks,” Crowley says. “You’re a stubborn bastard.” 

Aziraphale lets out a little huff of a laugh and finally turns his head to look at Crowley. Crowley is shocked to see the redness in Aziraphale’s eyes. He wasn’t prepared for _this_. 

“I’ve been…” Aziraphale starts then trails off. He sucks in a deep breath before he continues. “I’ve been having a bit of a time of it, if I’m being honest.” 

Crowley softens slightly. He _had_ noticed something wasn’t quite right with Aziraphale, after the high from saving the world had worn off. Aziraphale is, however, notoriously bad at explicitly asking for help. Crowley is equally bad at articulating his feelings, so the two of them have simply been navigating around whatever crisis Aziraphale has surreptitiously been dealing with by himself. 

Crowley hasn’t been sure whether he should attempt to bring it up or let Aziraphale sort himself out on his own. Crowley’s made a point of being constantly available, but he hadn’t heard from Aziraphale in nearly a week. He was mustering up the courage to ask him about it when Aziraphale called and invited him to tea. He agreed, even though he had had plans to disrupt Tube service just in time for rush hour. Aziraphale needed the company more than Crowley needed to be a nuisance. 

“Well, yeah, I figured as much,” Crowley says, nodding slowly. Aziraphale looks at him for a long moment. Then he unfolds his wings. 

Crowley doesn’t gasp but it’s a near thing. He swallows the air that threatens to escape and focuses on Aziraphale’s wings rather than looking at his face. 

Aziraphale’s wings, normally a pure, downy white, are scraggly and matted. The feathers are stuck together in a tangled mess, and the white is hardly pristine anymore, marred by neglect. 

It looks painful. 

Crowley makes himself look at Aziraphale’s face. He’s looking down and away, his cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame. Crowley feels that pang in his chest again. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says softly. Aziraphale doesn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. 

“I’ve been, ah, preoccupied,” Aziraphale says. 

“It looks like it hurts.” 

Aziraphale shuffles on the spot but doesn’t say anything. 

“Come on, then,” Crowley says. Aziraphale blinks. 

“What?” 

“Come on, I said,” Crowley says, turning and walking out of the kitchen with purpose. After another moment of hesitation, he hears Aziraphale follow. 

Crowley lets himself into Aziraphale’s bathroom, which is somehow enormous in spite of the size of his flat. He runs the water in the tub that’s big enough to fit two reasonably-sized beings, three if they were particularly small. Crowley goes through Aziraphale’s bathroom cabinets. It’s not the first time Crowley has snooped through Aziraphale’s cabinets, but at least this time he has an excuse. He pulls out one container after another, stacking them on the edge of the tub: a jar of scented salts, some kind of milk-based bath soak, a bar of finely milled soap, and an almond scented oil-based soap. He finds a washcloth monogrammed with AZF and puts that on the edge of the tub as well. Crowley examines the jar of salts briefly before he dumps about half of it into the hot water. He adds the milky bath soak with the precision of a blind chemist. With a satisfied nod, he turns back to Aziraphale, who’s still standing in the doorway. 

“Get in, angel,” Crowley says with a jerk of his head. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale says softly. His eyes are wide and sad and he’s shaking his head. Crowley can barely stand it. 

“Don’t tell me you only bathe in holy water,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale’s lip has the audacity to _wobble_. Crowley freezes for a long moment, suddenly completely second guessing his course of action. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks finally. 

“No,” Aziraphale says with a sniff. 

Crowley’s heart sinks. “No?” 

“I don’t bathe in holy water,” Aziraphale says. 

“Well that’s good then,” Crowley says. “I wouldn’t be able to help you, otherwise.” 

Aziraphale’s gaze goes a little far away and he doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Crowley shifts in place, feeling horribly awkward. This was almost certainly a bad idea, Crowley realizes now. What was he thinking? 

Aziraphale blinks back to the present and looks at Crowley - it’s _painful_ to see Aziraphale like this, raw and vulnerable. 

“Help me?” 

Right, that’s what he was thinking. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says with a nod. He shrugs out of his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. “You’re not going to be able to reach all those feathers yourself.” 

Crowley sees Aziraphale gulp as his eyes slide past Crowley to look at the bath. He meets Crowley’s eyes again. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale says. Crowley blinks. He hadn’t managed to think past the “get Aziraphale in the bath” bit and now Aziraphale is disrobing in front of him. Crowley turns away abruptly. He pretends to busy himself with one of the jars he left on the bathroom counter until he hears the water slosh as Aziraphale slips into the tub. 

When Crowley turns around, he is surprised by how _diminished_ Aziraphale looks - small in his ridiculously enormous tub, his shoulders hunched in a little bit, his wings trailing in the water. 

Again, Crowley hesitates. He curses himself for not thinking this far ahead. 

“Is it too hot?” Crowley asks stupidly. Aziraphale swishes his arms around in the water a little. 

“No. It’s… pleasant.” 

“Ah, that’s good.” 

Crowley means to help, he does, he’s just not entirely sure how he’s meant to start. He’s doubting everything he’s ever known, including the basics of wing maintenance, which Crowley has taken extremely seriously for millennia. He swallows around the lump in his throat and picks up the monogrammed washcloth. His feet feel like they’re encased in concrete shoes as he moves toward the tub. He can feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him as he kneels on the tiles beside him. He doesn’t look up, though, instead reaching over the rim of the tub to dunk the washcloth into the water. Crowley stops before his hand touches the water. 

“Ah. How is holy water made…?” 

“Not from an angel’s bathwater.” 

“No, right, of course,” Crowley says, dipping his hand into the warm, soapy water. 

“Certainly not from _my_ bathwater,” Aziraphale says, more or less under his breath. Crowley glances up but decides not to press further. Instead, he wrings out the washcloth and, haltingly, runs it gently over Aziraphale’s bare shoulders. Aziraphale hunches forward a little more, not away from Crowley’s touch, exactly, but not into it either. 

Crowley moves slowly, as much for Aziraphale’s benefit as his own. He hasn’t done any form of social grooming for thousands of years. More to the point, he doesn’t want to hurt Aziraphale any more than he already is. 

He works his way down Aziraphale’s shoulders to the wing joint. Aziraphale twitches a little as Crowley drags the washcloth over the sensitive spot. He yanks his hands away. 

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says quietly. He draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He leans his cheek on his knees. “You won’t hurt me.” 

Crowley opens his mouth to respond, but can’t find the words. He shuts his mouth with a snap and goes back to work, moving the washcloth along the major wing bones, getting rid of the top layer of grime, making sure his feathers are soaked in preparation for the more difficult task of working out the mats. Worryingly, a few feathers drop into the water, getting lost in the bubbles. 

Neither of them speak for a long time. Aziraphale’s wings are enormous, and Crowley continues to move slowly, afraid of hurting him, even by accident. Aziraphale doesn’t move, his cheek still resting on his knees. 

“This isn’t like you, Aziraphale,” Crowley says eventually. Aziraphale makes a small noise. Crowley waits for actual words, but Aziraphale doesn’t offer anything more. “I don’t mean that you’re _vain_ , just that… you’re usually so…” 

Crowley trails off, casting about for the right word. The silence goes on for long enough that Crowley gives up. He dabs at Aziraphale’s wings, feeling useless. 

“What will you do next?” Aziraphale asks out of nowhere, startling Crowley. He drops the washcloth in the tub and watches it sink out of sight. 

“After this?” Crowley asks, distracted. He pushes his sleeve further up his arm, eyeing the depth of the water. Aziraphale lifts one hand and waves it vaguely. 

“No, I mean… In general.” 

“Oh. I dunno. I had intended to disrupt Tube service this evening, but,” Crowley shrugs. He reaches down into the water. 

“But?” Aziraphale prompts. 

“But?” Crowley repeats. His fingers brush flesh and Aziraphale jumps. Water goes everywhere. Crowley snatches his hand away and falls back. Aziraphale turns fully around to look at him. 

“You’re sopping.” 

“I dropped the washcloth.” 

Aziraphale fishes around in the water and then holds the washcloth aloft. Crowley picks himself up off the tiled floor, brushing at his clothes ineffectively. 

“You don’t have to do this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice so soft it hurts. Crowley looks up. 

“What are you on about?” 

Aziraphale gestures vaguely at himself and the tub. “This - I can take care of myself.” 

“Clearly you can’t,” Crowley points out. He takes the washcloth out of Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale bites his lip and looks away. Crowley feels a slight burst of panic that he’s said something wrong. 

“I’ve taken care of myself for a long time, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. 

“Well, that’s ridiculous.” 

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley. His eyes are piercing - more than usual - as he scans Crowley’s face. Crowley feels like he’s being dissected. He swallows thickly. Maybe he _has_ said something wrong. 

“Isn’t that what we’ve done for millennia, here, on Earth?” 

“I suppose,” Crowley says. “The Head Office was more or less always looking over our shoulders.” 

“I suppose,” Aziraphale echoes. He goes quiet again. Crowley twists the washcloth between his hands. He’s starting to get a chill from his damp clothes. 

“It’s better now, without them,” Crowley ventures. Aziraphale looks at him sideways but doesn’t say anything. Crowley plunges ahead, speaking without really thinking about the words he’s saying. “We can go on with it and not worry about doing what they tell us. We can just… do what we like. The world is our oyster, you could say. There’s no Plan. We’re on our own.” 

The last few words come out with an air of triumph - _we’ve earned this_ , Crowley finds himself thinking. After being chained to the expectations of their respective Head Offices for millennia, the freedom is exhilarating. No more waiting for answers that never come, no more being strung along with the promise of a higher (or, depending on one’s perspective, lower) purpose. It was all bollocks, as Crowley had suspected. He found where he belongs - it was in neither Heaven nor Hell but on Earth, where he could choose for himself what he could be. It took a close brush with the Apocalypse to embrace the concept, but Crowley couldn’t imagine any other way. 

Crowley realizes Aziraphale is shaking. His wings send little ripples across the surface of the water. 

“Angel?” he asks. 

“I don’t know what I’m meant to do now,” Aziraphale says. 

“Well, whatever you’d like, really,” Crowley says, his brow furrowing. “That’s more or less what we’ve done anyway, right?” 

“But… why? For what purpose?” 

“Because you… want… to?” 

Aziraphale makes a small noise. Crowley comes around the side of the tub to try to meet Aziraphale’s eyes again. They’re screwed tightly shut, his fingers clutching at himself with white knuckles. Crowley reaches out tentatively to touch Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale blinks open his eyes and there’s tears there, threatening to spill over. 

“I’m not used to this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. His voice has gone hoarse. “Being alone.” 

Crowley drops his hand. 

“You’re not alone,” Crowley says with a frown. 

“You said it yourself - there’s no Plan, no higher calling. Purposeless. Alone in the universe.” 

“You’re not alone,” Crowley says again, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. Aziraphale shakes his head. Crowley drops the washcloth back into the tub and seizes Aziraphale’s hand in both of his own. He squeezes tightly. “You have me. We’ve made it through millennia - we aren’t going to let a little bit of uncertain eternity to stop us.” 

Aziraphale drags his eyes from his hand to Crowley’s face. He swallows. 

It occurs to Crowley, in that moment, that Aziraphale is Falling. Not like Crowley did, surely, but Aziraphale had never questioned his divine orders for as long as Crowley has known him. Aziraphale could always wave it away, attribute it to the Ineffable Plan, and be satisfied that there was much he did not know or understand. Now, in the aftermath of the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, Aziraphale has to come to grips with the idea that there _is_ no Plan - not one that’s worth trying to understand, anyway. His unquestioning faith has been truly challenged for the first time in his entire existence. Aziraphale is having questions, and he’s terrified at the idea of unfettered freedom. 

“You’re not alone,” Crowley repeats. “You have me.” 

“Crowley…” 

“No, listen,” Crowley says. He’s still holding Aziraphale’s hand tightly between his own. “You don’t have to know the answer right now. You’ve got to wrestle with it, but I’m an expert. I know what it’s like to Fall.” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest but Crowley cuts him off before he can speak. 

“You’re not going to become a demon any more than I’ve got a chance of ascending,” Crowley says. “You’ve seen it now - there’s no good or bad, black or white. It’s all shades of grey. Blindly following the ineffable Plan nearly got the world destroyed. And that happened on _both_ sides - neither of them cared about _why_ , they just wanted to win.” 

Aziraphale closes his mouth slowly, swallowing his protest. 

“They didn’t think about the consequences, Aziraphale,” Crowley goes on, his voice softening again. “They never asked why. We’ve been on Earth long enough to see that there’s so much more than just winning. Maybe you’re a bad angel and I’m a bad demon, but _they’re_ all bastards so - is that so bad, really?” 

Crowley can feel Aziraphale shaking under his hands. He desperately wants to make Aziraphale understand that it’s alright, that it’s not the end of the world - they already got past that. 

Crowley tugs on Aziraphale’s hands, dragging him to the edge of the tub. He goes easily, taken by surprise, and then Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale, bringing him to his chest, the edge of the tub the only thing between them. 

It’s horribly uncomfortable. 

But, after a moment, he feels Aziraphale’s body go slack and melt into his embrace. 

“You’re not alone, angel,” Crowley says eventually. “You have me.” 

Crowley’s legs are beginning to lose feeling by the time Aziraphale finally pulls away. He looks at Crowley, his eyes rimmed red but not quite as hopeless as he had looked before. 

“Will you still help with my wings?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Of course.” 

Aziraphale fishes the washcloth out for Crowley, and Crowley moves around the tub to get at Aziraphale’s wings again. He’s got most of the grime off and has begun work on the worst of the mats. Crowley still keeps his touch gentle, careful. He’s never actually touched Aziraphale’s wings, even after all this time. Theirs had been a business arrangement long before it became social, and even then, Crowley had never dreamed of asking an angel, of all creatures, to partake in grooming. (That’s not true - he certainly dreamed about it, but he couldn’t let himself get his hopes up. He is, after all, a demon, and Aziraphale was on the other side. Things are different now.) 

Crowley does as best as he can while leaning over the edge of the tub, the porcelain digging into his ribs as he reaches for Aziraphale’s wings. Aziraphale seems to register this after a while. He half turns his head to look over his shoulder. 

“You don’t have to be so thorough,” Aziraphale starts to say, then pauses. Crowley looks up. 

“I told you I’d help.” 

“Well, yes, but I suppose your knees must be getting sore.” 

They are, but Crowley just makes a face. 

“You could… come closer,” Aziraphale says. “The tub is big enough for two.” 

That freezes Crowley in his tracks. He takes a moment to process the invitation. 

It’s not the nudity that bothers him - but, well, the _closeness_. At least kneeling outside of the tub keeps a certain distance between them. For Crowley’s sanity. 

“Yes, alright,” Crowley says before he realizes what he’s saying. His body moves even as his mind races to catch up. He’s out of the rest of his clothes and sliding into the bath behind Aziraphale so quickly it might have been a miracle. The water is still quite warm, in spite of how long they’ve been sitting there. Crowley is acutely aware of Aziraphale’s corporeal presence - even though he’s careful not to touch him, the water feels thicker, heavier around Aziraphale’s body. 

For all the human comforts Aziraphale indulged in over the years, he always seemed fairly ambivalent about his actual body, whereas Crowley made an enormous effort to make his body _his_ , whatever that meant to him at the time. It changed according to century or mood or time of day. He didn’t see the point of staying the same when nothing else did. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had more or less accepted what he had been given, much like his faith. Even after being discorporated and spending time in another body, Aziraphale returned to the familiar vessel - it's comfortable, and Aziraphale likes comfort. 

Which is why Crowley is so taken aback by how long Aziraphale must have gone without tending to his wings. Aziraphale was essentially punishing himself. Crowley pushes the thought aside and focuses on the task at hand. 

It _is_ easier up close like this, so Crowley starts working his fingers through the matted feathers he couldn’t reach from outside of the tub. Inch by inch, Crowley begins to return Aziraphale’s wings to their former glory. Aziraphale is still tense under Crowley’s hands, albeit less so than when they started. He seems to be relaxing in increments. He doesn’t speak and Crowley doesn’t care to break the silence. It’s peaceful, almost, and he wants to give Aziraphale the space to process. After all, Aziraphale has to decide for himself what he thinks now. 

Eventually, Crowley runs out feathers to groom. He’s reluctant to stop, though, to break the spell that’s fallen over them. He keeps his fingers moving in Aziraphale’s wings, petting now, gently following the path of bone and feather with the tips of his fingers, memorizing the feeling. Who knows when he’ll get the opportunity again - who knows _if_ he’ll get the opportunity again. Besides, he wants to let Aziraphale take the lead. It’s his crisis of faith, after all. 

Aziraphale moves finally, as if he’s only just now aware that Crowley has stopped grooming him. He turns his head to look over his shoulder, his eyes downcast. 

“I suppose we should dry off,” Aziraphale says. Crowley takes a deep breath then nods, letting his hands fall away from Aziraphale’s wings. He already misses the feeling of his feathers between his fingers. Crowley gets up and steps out of the water, reaching for Aziraphale’s absurdly fluffy bath towels. He holds one out for Aziraphale as he climbs out of the bath behind him. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says. Crowley nods again. He wraps his towel around his waist. Aziraphale worries at the edge of his own towel, hesitating. Crowley meets his eye. 

“What is it?” Crowley asks. 

“The Head Office isn’t really gone,” Aziraphale says. 

“Of course not,” Crowley says. He’s not sure where this is going. “They’ll be back, after a while anyway.” 

Aziraphale nods slowly. “But we don’t have to listen to them.” 

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches up. 

“No, we don’t.” 

“It’s strange.” 

“It is a bit,” Crowley agrees. Aziraphale lets his breath out. 

“Will you stay for a bit longer?” Aziraphale asks. “I know you had plans, but…” 

“Sure, angel,” Crowley says, practically on top of Aziraphale’s words, rushing to sound casual. 

“It’s not an imposition?” 

“Don’t be daft.” 

Aziraphale ducks his head and turns away to wrap himself in his towel. With a puff of miraculous air, he shakes his wings dry. The feathers puff out, light and fluffy, and Crowley aches to get his hands in there again. Instead, he tightens his towel around his waist. 

When he looks up, he finds Aziraphale looking at him with a strange expression on his face. Crowley opens his mouth to ask what’s on his mind when Aziraphale closes the distance between them. His lips find Crowley’s own and it takes Crowley’s mind several moments to process this new development. 

By the time he does manage to register that _Aziraphale is kissing him_ , Aziraphale is already pulling away. Crowley steps forward instinctively, reluctant to let space come between them again. 

The color is high on Aziraphale’s cheeks but he looks more sure of himself than he has for most of the evening. 

“I’ve waited a long time to do that,” Aziraphale says, a bit timidly, as if God Herself might still smite him on the spot. When She doesn’t, Aziraphale goes on. “If I’m - if there is a Plan after all, it wouldn’t be my worst transgression.” 

Crowley blinks at him, perhaps longer than he means to. Aziraphale’s expression sinks a bit. 

“Then why on earth did you wait so long?” Crowley finally blurts out. Aziraphale blinks at him. 

“What do you mean?” 

“If kissing your sworn mortal enemy isn’t your _worst_ transgression -” 

“Perhaps you just weren’t tempting enough,” Aziraphale says. Crowley looks at him - _really_ looks at him - and sees the sly twist of his mouth and, _holy heaven_ , what a bastard. 

“You couldn’t resist food, but you could resist me!” Crowley says, indignant. 

“That’s a different matter entirely,” Aziraphale says, as if that was a proper explanation. 

Crowley drags him in by the towel and crushes his mouth to Aziraphale’s. He can feel him smiling against his lips. 

“Don’t get smug on me, angel,” Crowley growls, the threat losing whatever bite it may have had as Crowley can’t actually stop kissing him. He feels Aziraphale’s hands settle on his hips. 

“Perish the thought.” 

“It’s been _millennia_ -” 

“I suppose we have some catching up to do,” Aziraphale says, following Crowley’s mouth with his own. 

“You’ve got no idea.” 

“I don’t,” Aziraphale says. “But I have you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of a prompt table challenge I've posed to myself.
> 
> 001\.  | Lively  | 002\.  | Remorseful  | 003\.  | Dismiss  | 004\.  | Heavy  | 005\.  | Forward   
> ---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
> 006\.  | Prowl  | 007\.  | Cut  | 008\.  | Compromise  | 009\.  | Impulse  | 010\.  | Hush   
> 011\.  | Morals  | 012\.  | Engage  | 013\.  | Voice  | 014\.  | Awkward  | 015\.  | Lower   
> 016\.  | Plead  | 017\.  |  ~~Caring~~ | 018\.  | Believe  | 019\.  | Found  | 020\.  | Shield   
> 021\.  | Open  | 022\.  | Tactile  | 023\.  | Journey  | 024\.  | Scowl  | 025\.  | Hero   
> 026\.  |  _Writer's Choice_ | 027\.  |  _Writer's Choice_ | 028\.  |  _Writer's Choice_ | 029\.  |  _Writer's Choice_ | 030\.  |  _Writer's Choice_


End file.
